


seaside improvisation

by tinyweirdloves



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mermaid Harry, a lot of unexplained mermaid magic just roll with it, or /sort of/ mermaid harry anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:01:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyweirdloves/pseuds/tinyweirdloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I’m not from here,” Harry says. He’s silent for the space of a breath. “I’m from… I’m from under.” He stares right at Louis like he’s willing him to understand. Louis looks back at him, confused. A tiny crease forms between Harry’s eyebrows. “Under,” he repeats stubbornly, and Louis’s struck by how young he looks in that moment.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Under where?” he says, and Harry looks at him like he can’t figure him out.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“The water,” Harry says, like it should be obvious. “The sea.”</i>
</p>
<p>[harry is a mermaid who has lost his tail and he lives in louis's bathtub for a month.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	seaside improvisation

**Author's Note:**

> this fic would probably be lying somewhere abandoned if it was not for [artemis](http://thesebrightlights.tumblr.com) who is the most wonderful & supportive friend i could ever ask for!! i am as grateful to them as it is possible for a person to be. also a huge thanks to [zee](http://nbalmighty.tumblr.com) for the inspiration & encouragement. you are both lovely lovely lovely.
> 
> i am weirdly nervous about this. i am also weirdly excited. i sincerely hope you enjoy it. ♡♡

The stranger isn’t in Louis’s bed anymore.

Louis peeks around the door and starts edging into the room carefully. There’s no one under the bed, and – he glances at the wide-open doors, the clothes scattered all over the floor – no one in the wardrobe, either. The sheets on the bed are rumpled, though, and Louis can see the faint imprint of a body along the creases. He sits down on the bed and puts a hand on the sheets. They’re not cold yet.

Louis allows himself to feel a little bit of worry.

It’s– worry isn’t what he _does._ He just about scrapes by paying the rent on most months, he consistently forgets about uni assignments, he never, ever remembers to book doctor’s appointments; and still, he doesn’t get worried, because he more or less considers it a waste of time. But. But the stranger had been in such a state last night, and now he’s disappeared, and… what? Louis can’t help but feel the tiniest bit responsible.

He’s about to pick himself up off the bed and start a flat-wide hunt when he hears a loud spluttering noise coming from the direction of the bathroom.

Louis jumps up and all but runs to the bathroom door, which is in the hallway and a tiny bit ajar. He hesitates outside for a moment before pulling it open, and then– oh.

He’s greeted by the sight of a puddle on the floor, his tiny bathtub brimming over with water and a long, lanky body squeezed into it. There he is. Louis can’t help but feel relieved, even though the stranger is very much naked and Louis doesn’t know if he should be here at all. But his hair’s dripping with water, and he’s gasping and spluttering desperately, and Louis stays in the doorway for a long moment until the stranger’s eyes find him and hold his gaze. It’s interrupted when a new wave of coughing doubles him over.

Louis moves this time. He’s crouching next to the bathtub in a second, unsure where to put his hands. The stranger’s hand comes up to grip the edge of the bathtub, and Louis, on impulse, rests his own hand over it and grips it gently. “Hey,” he says, making himself heard over the coughing. “It’s okay. Hey. You’re okay. Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

He runs his fingers over the stranger’s knuckles, feeling slightly powerless, but the stranger looks at him and seems to take the advice, taking long, heaving breaths that are cut short by coughing every now and then. But it dies down eventually, fading until it’s only the stranger’s breathing echoing off the bathroom tiles, and Louis asks, because he may or may not be _worried,_ “What happened?”

And at that, the stranger seems to curl up into himself. He turns big shiny green eyes on Louis, hair plastered to his head. “I can’t breathe,” he says in a deep voice that sounds utterly distraught. “I can’t _breathe._ ”

His chest is still heaving powerfully, and Louis panics slightly, trying to remember anything he can about how asthma works. “What do you mean?” he asks, just in case.

And the stranger’s eyes fill with such overwhelming sadness at that that Louis feels his skin prickle. For a moment, it feels like he’s looking at something that’s far, far beyond his own understanding. “I can’t breathe,” the stranger repeats, eyes green and mournful and uncomprehending. “I can’t breathe in the water.”

*

Louis isn’t sure what made him go out yesterday.

He knows he couldn’t sleep. He remembers lying on his bed, wide-eyed, staring at the darkened ceiling and thinking hazy two-am thoughts. He remembers closing the door of his flat behind him, padding silently down the stairs of his building, heading down to the beach along the deserted streets– it’s just that the threads that hold those memories together are confused, indistinct, and he can’t for the life of him say why he ended up on the empty beach at three in the morning.

He can remember exactly how he found him, though.

He can see it all in sequence inside his head: a flash of something white in the shingle, the same pale, naked body now curled inside his bathtub. The January wind, his own chattering teeth, green eyes opening and flitting to his face; hauling him up and draping his own jacket over his shoulders; letting this strange pale person lean on him, taking him home because it was three am and Louis didn’t know where else to go.

He remembers tucking him into his own bed and telling him it was going to be okay, for some reason; he remembers falling asleep on the sofa without even wondering who this person was, or where they came from, or if they were even real at all.

*

He calms down eventually and Louis stays there with him, because he feels it’d be a terrible idea to leave him alone. Louis _does_ know when to be quiet, knows that people sometimes need to tell things in their own time. But the minutes pass, Louis sitting on the floor with his head leaning back against the sink, the stranger sitting in the bathtub and blinking at the water, and there’s silence except for the steady drip of the leaky faucet into the bathtub. Something has to be done.

So Louis puts a hand down on the edge of the bathtub and rests his chin on it, looking up at the person’s face because he’s still very naked and Louis doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. The stranger looks down at him with eyes that are thoughtful and a little bit confused. Louis’s skin prickles again. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Louis.”

The stranger blinks at him. “Harry.” His voice is slow like his breathing. It makes Louis feel strangely calm.

“Harry,” he says, testing the name out, liking how it feels on his tongue. The stranger – Harry – nods. Okay. Louis’s going to have to ask now. “So, Harry, not to be rude, but I really was wondering how you ended up on the beach last night.”

Harry’s steady expression folds into itself. For a moment, Louis hates himself. “You understand why I’m asking, yeah?” he says as gently as he can. “Look, Harry, I’m really not an expert on– on _anything._ So if you’re hurt or something happened to you I can’t fix it, I–”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not hurt.”

Louis allows himself to feel relieved. “Good,” he says. A pause. “Do you think you can tell me what happened?”

Harry tenses up visibly. Louis doesn’t say anything, just watches. Harry’s jaw clenches for a moment, and then his voice is echoing off the tiles again. “I’m not from here,” he says. He shifts, and the water ripples. He’s silent again for the space of a breath. “I’m from… I’m from _under._ ” He stares right at Louis like he’s willing him to understand. Louis looks back at him, confused. A tiny crease forms between Harry’s eyebrows. “ _Under,_ ” he repeats stubbornly, and Louis’s struck by how young he looks in that moment.

“Under where?” he says, and Harry looks at him like he can’t figure him out.

“The water,” Harry says, like it should be obvious. “The sea.”

Louis looks at him, trying to grasp what he’s just said, how it could possibly make sense, but Harry keeps on talking, slow as ever. “I lived in the water. And then I was on the beach, _above,_ and I was alone and I had _these_ –” he jerks out both of his knees – “and I knew what had happened. And I can’t go back now.” He stops and frowns slightly. “I should be able to go back a moon from now. I think. Until then, though…” His face is an echo of the sadness from before, nostalgic and so powerful it throws Louis off for a moment, stops him from realizing what Harry’s said makes no sense whatsoever.

But he comes back to himself and frowns. “What do you mean, you lived in– and what’s wrong with your legs, I don’t–”

He’s aware of Harry looking at him, eyes wide and blinking, and his voice dies out. Harry has a look on his face as though all of this makes perfect sense, as though it should be _obvious,_ but Louis can’t make heads or tails of it. Harry speaks again. “I didn’t have them before. I– I lost my tail.” He blinks hard. “And I’m not getting it back now. I have legs now, and I’m up here, and I can’t breathe in the water, and–” He swallows visibly. “I can’t go back.”

Louis just stares.

“You had a tail,” he says slowly, uncomprehendingly. Harry nods. “Like a fish?” Louis manages to get out, and Harry cracks a weak little smile.

“Not like a fish,” he tells Louis. “Only, like, this bit.” He gestures down to his legs, and then at his torso. “This bit is the same.”

“Like,” Louis says, and then stops. “Like a mermaid.”

Harry frowns. “What’s a mermaid?”

Louis doesn’t answer. Because his thoughts are crowding around his head, more and more of them, and he can’t– this isn’t _possible._ A mermaid. A mermaid who Louis found on the beach yesterday and is sitting in his bathtub. Louis feels the bizarre urge to laugh. Maybe Harry really does need help if he genuinely thinks he used to be a mermaid– who knows how he ended up on the beach last night, maybe it messed with his head, Louis doesn’t _know_ –

“Louis?” he faintly hears Harry say.

He jolts back to reality feeling strange and hazy, like he’s not in his own body anymore. Harry’s wide green eyes are on him, though, and they somehow make Louis feel slightly more grounded.

“Harry,” he says slowly, even though it’s completely unreasonable for him to be asking this. “Are you having me on?”

Harry frowns. “D’you mean am I lying to you?” He looks genuinely confused at the question. “Why would I do that?”

And Louis looks at him and thinks of the way emotions pass over his face, genuine, completely unrestrained. Harry’s eyes are big and honest, and Louis somehow feels like they can see right into him– every little thought and doubt and emotion transparent inside him. They’re eyes that don’t lie.

He thinks of the way Harry’d walked yesterday, stumbling, unsure, like he wasn’t used to walking at all. He thinks of him trying to breathe underwater. And he thinks of that deep sadness he’s seen in Harry’s eyes, a sadness he can still see the echo of, a sadness that’s real and tangible and almost too powerful for Louis to fathom.

“I believe you,” he hears himself say, and is only half surprised at himself.

*

Harry stays in the bath for the rest of the day. Louis tries to finish a paper on Hemingway and halfheartedly clears up some of the clutter in the kitchen (how long have those plates in the sink been there for? He’s probably better off not knowing), but ends up checking on Harry more often than he probably should. It’s just supposed to be a peek around the door to make sure he’s okay – he doesn’t mean to end up offering to change the water or bringing him lunch or leaving him clean clothes and a towel in case he wants to get out. He definitely, _definitely_ doesn’t mean to end up staring.

(No, he doesn’t _stare._ Not on purpose. It’s just that sometimes he’ll come in and Harry will be holding his breath underwater with his hair floating like a halo around his face, looking all strange and ethereal, and Louis’s eyes will drift to his torso of their own accord before he can catch himself. He leaves almost immediately when that happens. It’s not on _purpose._ )

He leaves Harry curled up in the bathtub when he goes to sleep, and he avoids the questions floating around his head – are you just going to let him stay and do you really, honestly believe what he told you and how are you going to deal with this when you can barely take care of yourself–. He’ll figure it out. (It’s only for a _moon_ anyway, however long that is.)

*

Harry’s there when Louis gets up the next morning, and he’s there in the afternoon when he gets back from uni. Louis feels inexplicably relieved.

There’s an idea at the back of his head he feels vaguely nervous about, even though nervous isn’t something he _does_ either. But when he slips into the bathroom and mentions it to Harry, Harry’s face lights up, and he clambers out of the bathtub much quicker than Louis was expecting, even though he also loses his balance and Louis has to reach out and steady him. Louis finds him swim trunks and a loose t-shirt of his that’s tight around Harry’s shoulders (Harry doesn’t seem to like wearing clothes and insists he doesn’t get cold, so Louis doesn’t try to give him any more) and that’s how they end up making their way down to the beach, Harry stumbling a little but seeming completely unaffected by the wind that makes Louis pull his jacket tighter around himself.

(Louis can’t stop himself from noticing the tiniest things, like how Harry’s eyes turn a clearer green in the afternoon light and his hair curls up as it dries in the wind and his fingers run over his own skin, not seeming to like it being dry.)

And as soon as they step foot on the beach Harry takes the lead, still walking on uncertain feet but speeding up, dragging Louis by the hand behind him. By the time the sea is right in front of them, Harry lets go of Louis’s hand, yanks the t-shirt up over his head and starts running, stumbling once, then plunging into the sea like he was made for it.

In the shallows, Louis can see his whole body stretched out, pale and strong, but it’s two long strokes and he disappears into deeper waters where Louis can’t see him anymore. Louis fights an absurd spark of worry – if he doesn’t come back, it’ll be for the best, won’t it? It’ll mean he’s somehow a mermaid again and is back where he belongs – and toes his shoes off and takes them in his hand, dangling them off his fingers. The wind is biting and Louis can feel goosebumps on his arms inside his jacket, but he still walks up right to the water, feet sinking into the wet shingle and icy waves lapping at his ankles and toes. There, he waits.

He waits until his toes have gone numb and his teeth are chattering, until the sun is dipping behind the grey clouds on the horizon and the sea has become darker, murkier. He’s about to let it go and go home when he thinks he sees a movement in the waves, and sure enough, a head of dark hair peeks up a moment later and gets closer and closer until it’s right in front of where Louis’s standing. Then, Harry starts emerging from the water on wobbly legs, a distant expression on his face. Louis knows better than to ask. He just follows Harry as he walks up to the beach, not wanting to touch when he’s not sure Harry wants him to, mentally smacking himself for not having brought a towel before realizing that being dry is probably the last thing Harry wants right now. He watches water droplets trickle down Harry’s hair and feels mildly powerless. Then, Harry turns to face him, looks at him for a long moment with dark green eyes and holds out a hand for Louis to take. Louis does, trying to keep the surprise off his face, and they walk back to Louis’s flat without saying a word, Harry heading straight for the bathroom the moment they’re back inside.

*

Harry doesn’t leave. Louis doesn’t ask him to.

*

The days pass, and they fall into a routine without Louis really noticing.

Harry still likes being in the bathtub best, still sleeps in it, but he doesn’t stay there all day. On weekend mornings or on the days when Louis skips class he’ll traipse around the flat and examine everything curiously. He’ll ask how things work and what they’re for, dripping water all over the floor, his hair curling up at the ends as it dries. On the days when Louis goes to uni, he’ll come back to the sight of Harry curled up on the sofa with the TV on, watching Game of Thrones or Friends reruns or Adventure Time. In the afternoon they’ll head down to the beach and Louis will watch Harry swim while standing on the edge of the water. Harry’s gained more control of his limbs, but when he’s on solid ground he’ll forever be tripping or knocking things over; in the water it’s like he’s another person. He moves like a fish, like he’s in harmony with the waves; if Louis watches for long enough, it almost looks like he’s dancing. And each time he comes out of the water with the sun setting in the grey sky behind him he’s a little less distant, a little more _there._

(It turns out that a moon means a month, new moon to new moon. Putting a date on Harry leaving feels strangely final. Louis doesn’t like thinking about it.)

There are moments and moments. Harry never goes back to the panic of the first day, but he’ll get a faraway look on his face sometimes and curl up in the bathtub without saying a word. Once, he even apologizes to Louis; mumbles, “I’m not usually like this,” with a half-sad, half-frustrated look on his face. Louis can see that. He doesn’t know what Harry was like before (because he’s grown to wordlessly accept Harry’s explanation that he was a _mermaid_ without really realizing it), but he likes to think he can see flashes of it sometimes when Harry’s having a good day. He’ll sidle up behind Louis when he’s trying to make dinner and hook his chin over Louis’s shoulder, his breath tickling Louis’s neck; he’ll throw the windows open until the whole flat smells like sea wind; he’ll turn on the radio and sing along to Taylor Swift, eyes bright, dimples showing. What was Louis’s life before he got here? It’s not a thought Louis should be having, but he can’t help it; he finds himself wondering what he _did_ all day, how he managed to keep from boring himself to death. He doesn’t find an answer.

There’s a catch, though. (Isn’t there always a catch?) And it’s this: Louis is helplessly, undeniably attracted to Harry.

He doesn’t acknowledge it. He tries to suppress it in any way he can, because it’s weird and feels like he’s taking advantage and Harry’s leaving anyway. But then Harry will come out of the sea, shaking the water out of his eyes, the lines of his torso broad and powerful, and Louis will feel hot all over despite the January wind; Harry will cuddle him on the sofa and leave damp patches on his clothes and Louis will feel a little breathless, a little floaty. There’s nothing he can _do_ except put that apart, hide it away, so that it feels like nothing when Harry takes his hand as they walk down to the beach or tells him _I’m glad it was you who found me._ It’s nothing. It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t be letting it matter.

So the days stretch on, following one another easily, with Louis barely noticing. The sea becomes a fixed part of his life along with Harry. He learns things about him, small snippets that he files away without even realizing he’s doing it. He’s two hundred and sixty-nine moons old, he has an older sister, his tail was green. And in return, Louis tells him about himself too like he hasn’t done since he was a teenager: he doesn’t think about it, it just comes out, and Harry’s sincere thoughtful eyes make him want to say more. So he does. He tells him things he’s never told anyone, how he misses his mum and sisters more than he can stand sometimes and feels horribly guilty about leaving them back in Doncaster, even with his stepfather in the picture. In a smaller voice, he tells him how he worries sometimes that no one’s ever going to want to stick around. Harry says something sometimes; sometimes he doesn’t. But he’s there the whole time, listening, and for some strange reason it makes Louis feel safer than he’s done in years.

The days turn into weeks. Louis buys Harry three goldfish; they go down to the pier and eat candyfloss off sticky fingers like they’re twelve; they watch The Little Mermaid and Harry pretends he’s not crying. It’s all lovely, the fact that Louis is helplessly attracted to Harry doesn’t _matter,_ and Louis doesn’t think about the fact that in two weeks Harry won’t be here anymore.

*

It happens when they’re curled up on Louis’s bed one night (it’s something that they do now). Louis’s eyelids feel heavy, he’s petting at Harry’s hair in a way that’s probably far too intimate and Harry’s slow drawl and the wind outside are the only things he can hear apart from his own breathing.

It’s become a habit now. Back when Louis still lived in Doncaster, he’d tuck his sisters in every night, sit on one of their beds and tell them a bedtime story. He hasn’t done it once since he left, but Harry said he liked it when Louis told him things about the world here and Louis gets the unexpected urge to do it again. So he tells stories about princesses and dragons and fairies and even mermaids, and Harry humours him, listening intently and picking up the story when Louis trails off. And sometimes he’ll tell Louis about what it was like underwater, and even though Harry’s voice is as slow as honey and he has a tendency to go off on all sorts of tangents Louis finds himself listening to every word.

“…and there are all sorts of fish, really, more than you can ever imagine, and I know they don’t like humans very much but they’re really quite lovely,” Harry’s saying. “They’re not very colourful up here, but I heard in warmer waters it’s like swimming in a rainbow.” His voice trails off and his eyes flutter shut as Louis scratches at his scalp like he’s a cat. His hair’s only a little bit damp, and it’s wonderfully curly like this, scattered over Louis’s pillow like a halo. Louis props himself up on an elbow and watches him, expecting him to keep going.

He doesn’t. He’s silent for a while, turning his head into Louis’s touch. And then his eyes open, and he looks right at Louis and says, “I’d really like you to kiss me right now.”

Louis’s brain freezes.

“What,” he gets out, because it’s the only thing he can manage.

Harry blinks at him all slow and languid and thoughtful. Louis can’t _think._ “You heard me,” Harry says easily. “I mean, if you’d like to.”

Louis tries to put his thoughts in order. “Harry,” he says. His voice sounds weak to his own ears. “I’m not sure we can do this, I don’t think–”

Harry cuts him off in a tone that’s slightly offended. “I’m not stupid, Louis. I know what it means.” His voice softens almost imperceptibly. “I know what it means when you look at me like you do, too.”

Oh. Louis blinks. And here he’d thought he was being subtle. But Harry’s still looking at him, calm and intent, and somehow Louis’s forgotten every single reason why he’d thought this would be a bad idea because his face is inching closer, closer–

–and then Harry’s surging up and fitting their lips together, easy as anything, and Louis dimly thinks that’s how it _should_ be. Harry’s lips are soft and warm, slick under his; Louis feels a shiver run through him. He pulls back, looks at Harry for a moment and then kisses him again, tiny quick kisses because he can’t get enough of them. Harry smiles into it and reaches out to touch his cheek, his neck, to tangle his fingers in the short hairs at the back of Louis’s head.

“Like that,” Harry mumbles against his mouth. “Thank you.”

Louis wants to say something back, but for once he can’t find the words. So he kisses Harry intently to make up for it, kisses him until he feels warm and floaty all over, kisses him until he’s so heavy with sleep he can’t tell their lips apart.

*

Things barely change. Louis is glad.

It’s stupid, but he can’t help but feel sometimes that this is a natural progression of their relationship, no more. Like more time spent together would inevitably have led to falling asleep curled around each other, trading kisses in the morning, Harry trailing fingers down his spine and making him shiver. (Harry smiles so beautifully when that happens, when Louis can’t help but show the physical effect Harry has on him.) Louis feels more at home than he’s ever done here.

Harry seems brighter too, happier, and Louis can't be sure if that's a consequence of growing used to the way things are here or because of _this._ He doesn't ask. He just watches the sincere glow in Harry's eyes, the way he's okay with sleeping in Louis's bed and waking up with completely dry skin, and marvels in it. 

He confesses his fascination with Harry's hair and Harry's both amused and delighted; he lets Louis play with it more often and wears it in ridiculous braids and buns, smiling playfully. Whenever Louis kisses him (because he can kiss Harry whenever he wants now – Louis still hasn’t gotten used to it), Harry kisses back immediately and his hands come to rest on Louis's waist, holding him close. 

It feels an awful lot like love. Louis kills that thought as soon as it appears. 

Because Harry's leaving. Harry's leaving and Louis gets to have this and that's okay, but he can't let this become something bigger than the _now._

*

Somehow, being with Harry starts feeling like a countdown. He can’t remember when that started.

*

The first time they do anything _more_ is a week after their first kiss. Harry pulls Louis into the bathtub and kisses him until they're both hard and panting; Louis gets Harry to explicitly tell him that he wants this before fitting his lips to Harry's jaw and getting him off in slow, sure strokes. Louis could almost describe it as beautiful, the way Harry turns into a whimpering mess under him, gasping unabashedly and coming with a moan of Louis's name. Harry gets a hand around him then, and even though it's obvious he's never done this before he has Louis shuddering and coming in less than a minute, the warm water rippling around them.

Louis, in a post-orgasm haze, Harry's arms holding him close, catches himself thinking that this is something he could do forever. He pushes the thought firmly to the back of his head, but can't quite bring himself to pull away from Harry.

*

Louis watches the moon wane in the sky and says nothing about it.

He doesn't have to. He can feel Harry's eyes on him every time. Louis doesn't meet them, because he can deal with the idea of Harry leaving if he doesn't have to hear Harry say it. 

(He can deal with it. He _can._ Harry's going back where he belongs, and who is Louis to try and stop that?)

*

If Louis clings a little tighter to Harry at night the last few days before the new moon, no one has to know, and Harry has the grace not to say anything.

*

The sky is wide and empty, and Harry's leaving tonight.

Louis watches Harry slip out of bed like he's in a dream. Everything has a sort of weightlessness to it, even his own limbs; not even Harry's touch on his wrist can fully ground him. When Louis closes the door of the flat behind them, he tries his hardest not to think that Harry's never going to come back here again. 

Harry holds his hand all the way down to the beach. Louis wishes he wouldn't, but for some reason he can't make himself let go of it. 

The sea is as huge as ever, darker than the sky, waves rolling steadily forward and back. Not for the first time, Louis feels a twinge of unease at the way it stays unchanging no matter what goes on outside of it. It should help put things into perspective, probably, make him realize that what goes on in his life isn’t really that important after all, but all it does is give him an urge to hold Harry’s hand tighter. Instead, as soon as the sea is right in front of them, he drops it.

Harry turns to look at him. His eyes are green even in the darkness. “Lou–”

“It’s okay,” Louis says automatically. “It’s okay, Harry, you can go.”

Something flashes over Harry’s face. His jaw tenses. “I’m not leaving.”

No. _No, please don’t make me do this._ Louis tries to make his voice harder, less wavering. “Harry. Come on. Go.”

“Louis, I–” Harry’s face twists in something like despair. “I don’t want to leave you, I’m staying here with you–”

“Harry.” But Harry isn’t moving. Louis takes hold of his wrist and tugs on it gently. “Come on.” He leads Harry towards the sea and Harry doesn’t say anything, only follows. Louis, feet already bare, wades into the water until Harry’s tugging on his hand, dragging him to a stop. He stops, takes a breath and turns to face Harry.

He’s hovering on the edge of the water, his bare toes not quite touching it. His face is pleading. Louis’s stomach twists when he looks at it. “Louis,” he says helplessly. Louis can’t make this go on any longer. He _can’t,_ because then he’ll take Harry and run away with him and never let him leave.

So he tugs on Harry’s wrist, gentle but firm, until Harry’s toes are dipping in the water. Harry shudders visibly. Slowly, carefully, he starts taking his clothes off. His whole torso stretches as he pulls his shirt up over his head, and Louis can’t quite stop himself from staring. Harry takes his shorts off and drops them on the dry shingle behind him, so that when he turns to face Louis again he’s as naked as on the day he found him. Louis digs his own nails into his palm.

Harry takes a step towards him, towards the deep, the waves breaking over his calves gently. Then, he’s surging up to Louis, and before Louis knows it he’s taking his face in his hands and kissing him hard and fierce. Louis kisses back as best as he can, his fingers winding into Harry’s hair of their own accord. Harry pulls back and presses their foreheads together. “I’m coming back for you,” he whispers. “I’m not leaving. I promise.” He kisses Louis again, just once. Then he lets go, takes a step back, glances at him one last time and plunges headfirst into the water. Louis thinks he sees the flash of a tail before he disappears completely.

*

It’s not like he didn’t expect it, is it? It’s not like he didn’t know this would happen.

*

The flat is empty. The bathtub is empty, and there’s still a leaky faucet, and Louis has to close the door to stop the incessant dripping from echoing around the flat.

He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s not crying and he’s not hurting and he’s going on with his life just like he was before Harry got here, isn’t he? He goes to uni and back. He curls up in bed alone and thinks about nothing. He doesn’t go to the beach. There’s a strange manic energy fizzing inside his body, making him nervous and bleary-eyed; but his limbs are heavy, like they’re dragging him down, and whenever he thinks about anything for more than a few minutes his thoughts get hazy.

He’s okay.

He breaks about a week in, curls up in bed and cries until his ribs hurt.

*

It’s not emptiness anymore; it’s the hideously specific feeling of Harry being missing.

He retreats into himself to try and stop it, but it’s no good; missing Harry isn’t something that comes only from the world outside, it’s something that’s there even when he tries his hardest not to think. It’s not a dead weight anymore. It’s something that’s alive inside him, flaring up whenever he so much as takes a breath.

He lives with it. What else can he do?

He keeps on feeding the goldfish, he leaves the windows open to the breeze sometimes, and he tries to view each day as the movement of the sun across the sky and not as a gaping chasm in front of him. One little step at a time. If he focuses on each little step he’ll be fine; not now, but eventually.

He doesn’t let himself hope.

(Harry said he’d come back. Louis cannot allow himself to cling to that thought. Harry said a lot of things, and he has no _reason_ to come back, none at all. What does Louis have to offer him? Why would he ever want to stay?

*

He goes down to the beach exactly once. He slips his shoes off, just like he used to, and stays there with his feet in the water until they go numb. He lets himself think about Harry. He wonders if he’s somewhere out there. He wonders, dimly, if he was ever there at all. If Louis didn’t have physical reminders that he’s real, he’d probably think he made him up.

He walks away when the sun goes down and he doesn’t look back.

*

(Harry doesn’t come back, anyway, so that proves he was right not to hope.)

*

It’s been a month since Louis saw Harry for the last time when he gets woken up by a knock on his door.

He jolts awake. There’s a moment of confusion, of grasping at the sheets for someone who isn’t there; then he pulls himself into reality, blinks into the darkness and goes very still. The knocking comes again, echoing around the flat. Louis’s heart starts hammering wildly.

It’s not. It’s _not._ It can’t be.

He’s slipping out of bed without even realizing he’s doing it. His feet touch the floor, but he feels like he’s hovering above it. Breath in, shaky breath out. His pulse is in his eardrums, his throat, the tips of his fingers. He walks down the hallway in silence. Another knock comes.

His fingers shake on the door latch. He draws it back. He pulls, and the door opens. There’s water dripping on his doormat.

There’s pale skin and long legs and slender hips. Louis’s pulse roars in his ears. He can’t _move,_ just stays completely still as his eyes travel up up up and land on Harry’s face, _Harry’s face,_ Harry who’s standing in front of him, Harry who’s come back.

“Louis,” Harry says. It’s a word, just one word, and Louis could listen to it forever.

Harry’s face still betrays everything he’s feeling. His eyes are wide and green and anxious and they’re looking at him, _Harry’s looking at him;_ for a tiny, bizarre moment, Louis is certain he’s going to cry.

And then Harry speaks again, his voice deep and rough and making Louis’s skin prickle. “I figured it out,” he says. “Lou, I figured it out– I belong here, too.” Louis blinks. Harry’s face is hopeful and nervous and beautiful and _Louis can’t think._ “There’s thirteen moons in a year, and– and that means I can stay here for half of them. I belong here with you,” he repeats, blinking like it’s still new to him, like he’s still in awe of it. A tiny pause. “If you’ll have me.”

Neither of them moves for a long, long moment.

And then Louis is choking out, “Of course,” because he doesn’t think he’s ever meant something this much, and the moment is broken. Both of them move at once and there’s water on Louis’s clothes and Harry’s seawater smell is everywhere and there’s skin against his skin, warm, _safe._ Harry’s arms wrap around his back and press him closer and Louis holds on tighter than he’s done in his life.

They’ll be okay. They’ll be okay _together._ Louis is sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! i'm on tumblr at [pretendboyfriendsau](http://pretendboyfriendsau.tumblr.com). come say hi!


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